


Doors Be Doors

by LinesAndColors



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ghost?, I dont really know, and its still a thing, basically I wrote a thing, sort of horror?, sort of something?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 18:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinesAndColors/pseuds/LinesAndColors
Summary: There's a dead person in a school because cliches are fun. There are doors because,,,,,,  doors? The doors have dangers in them, because plot. She has to like, 1. Not lose her sanity and 2. Get her lazy self up and take care of the stuff in the doors. She's sort of a coward though. So, good luck with that.Okay, all rediculous stuff aside, basically each door represents a problem she avoided in life that ultimately led to her suicide. She's stuck in a sort of purgetory state and has to actually confront her issues like a healthy person. I've only got a vague plan of the actual plot. I'm mostly just using this to practice writing.





	Doors Be Doors

**Author's Note:**

> You know? I didn't realize just how often I use italics until I had to go back through and replace every } with a >
> 
> I need to freaking chill with the italics, that was too much work for my poor soul.

"Stop!"

A single word echoed through the halls, bouncing off floors and ceilings in search of someone to hear it. A single word with no responce, no ear to catch it, no brain to process it, no voice to give it the answer it so desperately seeks. 

These halls have been empty for years. Classrooms stand looming and dark. Shadows dance as the sunlight that streaks through the broken windows creeps apon the walls everyday. No footsteps disturb the years worth of dust, No bells ring a call for students, No talking or laughter or singing has been heard for decades. Just the occasional single word,

"Stop!" 

She's not sure she knows how to say any other word. She thinks them, yes, but she doesn't think she can say them. She's tried before. Tried to open her mouth and say the words that bounce around in her head, but all that comes out is,

"Stop!"

She doesn't know what's wrong with her. She knows it's something, this isn't how it used to be, but she doesn't know what's wrong with her because she doesn't remember how she used to be.

Sometimes she gets glances. She'll turn a corner of a hallway and think she sees, just for a fraction of a second, the warm smile of _someone_ but then it's gone and she's greeted with the same still air and scilent halls as always. 

Though she tries not to dwell on moments like that. Tries not to think about what that smile could mean, who it could belong to, because when she tries to remember it's all just pain and the screeching word

"Stop!"

So, she doesn't think about it. She turns the corner and she keeps moving. She doesn't glance over at the wall in hopes of catching that smile, she doesn't look around to see if maybe, _just maybe,_ someone might be there this time, she just keeps moving and takes the next turn when it comes.

She's most often in some state of motion. Down one hall to the next, this turn which turns into that turn. She'll drift into classrooms and circle them before drifting out. Sometimes at the end of a hall there's a closed door. She's tried to open them before but she can't. The metal of the door doesn't respond to her pushing and pulling. She hates these doors and over the years she's learned to avoid all of them. There's a total of 11 closed doors. She knows where each and every single one of them are and knows exactly how to get by them without having to look.

However, she's not _always_ moving. Sometimes she does stop. She likes to stop by the broken and cracked windows when the sun is angled just so the rays paint themselves across the dust on the floor. She's sometimes sat and watched them slowly float across the floor as hour after hour passes until the sun moves beyond the veiw of the window. For her, it's most beautiful when it's raining. Then the light doesn't come in rays, it comes into the room like a cloud. There's no definite beginning or end to it, it's just a fog of light that makes the room just a little bit brighter then the hallways. 

She loves it when it rains. She loves sitting in a room surrounded by the cloudy light and listening to the constant rustle of the rain hitting everything outside the window. In some of the rooms the rain even comes in through open holes and cracks in the window. The drops fly in and wash away the dust in a small little section, marking their place. Even when it stops raining she can still come back and see where the rain has pushed back the dust and soaked through the wooden floors, creating a darker withered more beautiful brown in her opinion.

"Stop!"

Sometimes that word, that wretched torn word will come from no where. She doesn't say it. Doesn't think it. Doesn't remember it, but still it's there. Still bouncing off the hallway corners to find her no matter how hard she tries. And she tries. Everytime she hears it she tries. She races down hallways and through doors if only to make the word just a little fainter, but it never works. No matter how many open doors she goes through, no matter how many hallways she follows, no matter how tightly she tucks herself under an old worn desk, it's still there and just as loud as ever.

"Stop!" 

The worst part is the guilt. The heart wrenching guilt she feels every time that single awful word reaches her. She doesn't even know what she feels guilty for, maybe for hiding, for running. Maybe for ignoring it's call. Maybe she causes the call. She doesn't know and she doesn't want to know. All she wants is for it to _stop._

It does eventually go away. Waiting after the last call is even wprse then hearing the first call. Being twisted under a desk with ears gripped tightly in her hands and waiting and _waiting_ for the next one to come. Waiting for hours sometimes because she never knows if it's truely quit or if it's just lying in wait for her to lower her guard and lower her hands only to rips it's way into her brain again. She doesn't know and that's what makes it so bad. Just like the guilt. She doesn't _know_ what she did, she doesn't _know_ when it will come back. All she knows us that it's _there._ The Guilt and The Word.

"Stop!"

 

 

Why can't it just stop?

She's heard it so many times. She's ignored it so many times. She's run away so many times. Time no longer seem real. 

It's strange how she can see the sun set and rise everyday, and yet every morning feels like it's the first day she's ever seen and, at the same time, something she's experienced since the sun ever rose to begin with. There's no weeks, no months, no years. No numbers or clocks. Just the way the windows on one side glow in the morning and the windows on the other glow in the evening and the musty darkness that accompanies her when the sun isn't out at all. 

It's not like it matters though. The days don't affect the walls, they don't affect the roof over her, they don't change her world. No matter what happens, no matter how many suns paint the floors, no matter how many stars glitter through the glass, the hallways and classrooms remain. Floors always a beautiful constant brown, chairs and desks covered with undisturbed dust, empty still air. It's always the same, so time doesn't matter. 

Though, sometimes it feels like she's forgetting something. Something to do with time, like the passage of lights are supposed to mean something to her. Sometimes she'll find a window and catch the smallest sliver of sun creeping it's way over the green and into the purple and get the strangest feeling that she's supposed to do something. 

There's of course, nothing for her to do. She watches the windows and wanders through walkways. There's only so much she can do. 

At night is when it's the strangest. When every room is dark and light seems to cease to exist. She gets the urge to lie down somewhere. She's tried just about everywhere, on desks, on the floor, in chairs, but no matter where she lies, nothing changes, she just remains watching the walls through a sideways gaze. Sometimes she'll even lay there for hours because something about the stars tells her she should be, and yet, she remains how she always is. Eventually, she always gives up on laying there and continues her usual wanderings.

She's long since given up on trying to find out how long she's been there. She has no memories outside of this place, so she doesn't know when it started, and nothing changes so she doesn't know how to measure the time since. She's seem more snow fall and melt then she can bother to recall. She's sat through more rainy nights then there are marks on the wall. She can't seem to grasp the time moving, but she knows it's been a lot. 

She's been here so long, walked these halls so often, counted her footsteps so many times, she knows every tiny detail of this school. Every minute sound and sight have become more familiar to her then her own mind. 

That's how she notices the change.

She feels it first, in the shifting of the air around her. How the echos of her movement come back to her through the air. It's the same hallway as always, the same doors, the same lockers, the same suffocating dust, but the air doesn't bend right. At first she assumes she has imagined it. A fractured peice of reality her brain forced into the world to make up for the monotonous days and nights, but everytime she walks down that expanse, something is different. 

Then she hears it. It's a sound that's not really even there, but as she becomes more aware of the chnage in the air, she starts straining, searching for some sort of proof, some lead to follow and, she hears it. The soft rustle of air over dust. The kind of sound that only comes from a broken window, or a hole in the wall. The kind of sound that only comes from the world outside of the walls. Only problem is, she knows all the windows and holes. There shouldn't be one here, so she follows it.

And she sees it. There's a total of 11 closed doors. She knows where each and every single one of them are and knows exactly how to get by them without having to look, but now she is forced to look,

And there are a total of 10 closed doors, because this one is _open._

**Author's Note:**

> Yay doors. Welcome unnamed-ghost-character-whom-im-too-lazy-to-give-a-name-to to your second death.
> 
> Which is me being too lazy to write anymore,,,,,,,, 
> 
> I have a problem.


End file.
